Old Habits Die Hard
by ImagineThis22
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock is back, but little does he know that John has moved on in his own way. Everything seems back to normal, but for John, old habits die hard. Warnings: Bamf!John, violence, language. *Some Johnlock in future chapters. Slight implied Johniarty if you squint.*
1. Chapter 1- Hypocrite

_**Chapter Title: Hypocrite **_

_**A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D**_

_**Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)**_

_**Words: 1,849**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D**_

"I don't know anything! Please!" The man fought against his restraints, his wrists slicing against the handcuffs secured around his wrists and the ropes around his legs burning into his ankles. "Please, _please_ let me go!" He pleaded with his captor, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I don't know anything…I don't know anything!" He repeatedly sobbed, not able to control his shaking from crying.

"See, I don't believe that, Gerald. _ I_ believe that you _do_ know something, and that _something_ being the location of a certain hard-drive." The captor circled his victim, his hands clasped behind his back. "This could all go away with a simple answer as to where exactly the hard-drive is hidden."

Gerald squirmed in the chair he was restrained in. "I don't know! I _don't_ know!" He blubbered uncontrollably.

The captor stopped in front of Gerald and squatted down so he was able to look up into the man's face. "Gerald, it would be wise not to lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" Gerald screamed through tears.

The captor stood once more and resumed his circling around his victim, like a vulture would circle a dying animal. "Tell me," he demanded.

"I don't know where it is! Please, believe me!" Gerald yelled in hysterics, his voice cracking from all the crying.

"Tell me!" The captor produced his pistol from the back of his waistband and pistol-whipped the back of the man's head, not hard enough to knock him out, but just enough to inflict serious pain.

The man lurched forward from the blow, the chair almost tipping over.

His captor caught the chair from falling and slammed the chair back into place. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked it backwards so their faces were inches apart. "TELL ME!"

"I don't-"

"_NOW_!" He pushed the chair over and began to kick then man in his ribs. After each blow, the kicks got harder and more painful.

"Okay! _Okay_, I'll tell you! Just please, _please_ stop!" The man yelped in pain, trying to cower away from his imprisoner's kicks.

The captor yanked the chair back up, the man still tied helplessly to the arms and legs. "Where is it?!"

"The hard-drive is with Joey! Joey Gardena!" He cried, his voice barely above a whisper. "There, I've told you, now please let me go!"

The captor ignored him and produced his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and waited for his contact to answer.

The man answered after two rings, "Ah, is our little prisoner talking yet?"

"The man you're looking for is Joey Gardena. He has the hard-drive you're looking for in his possession."

"You're sure?" The man sounded doubtful.

The captor turned toward Gerald and glared, receiving another plea to 'let him go' as he cowered further into the chair. "Yes, I'm sure. There is no way he could lie to me, I'd see right through him."

"Well done, well done," Moriarty praised, "I should think of employing you full-time, Johnny Boy."

John scowled. "I told you, this was a one-time thing. Never again." He slammed his untraceable track-phone shut and threw it on the ground, shattering it beyond repair.

Gerald cowered into the chair and watched John cross the room, ripping the mask from his face. "You," Gerald gawked, "You're the guy who works with that one genius detective!"

John turned, throwing the mask behind him. "Yes, and your point?"

Gerald seemed to find a shred of confidence and ran with it, "I could turn you in! Your whole reputation will be ruined!"

John grimaced. "Who says you'll even get the chance?"

Gerald went as white as a sheet. "What do you mean?"

John raised the gun, cocking it to the side slightly, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The bullet hit its target, killing Gerald instantly.

…

John opened the door to his flat and entered the room, noticing the absence of a certain consulting detective sprawled out on the couch. John breathed a sigh of relief, having escaped another episode of being deduced down to the last detail of where he had been and what he had been doing.

John sat down in his chair and reached over for his book, planning on getting his mind off of what he had just done and the fact that he had no remorse at all. Funny, really. Sherlock had constantly claimed that John's sentiment would get the better of him and had always identified John as the most sentimental person he knew. What John had just done was less than sentimental, it was down-right emotionless. He felt no sympathy for the man's family, and the fact that Gerald was dead didn't make him feel horrible in the least.

"Tea?"

John jolted from his thoughts, having been blinded from the fact that his flat-mate had entered the room and was now studying him; the consulting detective perched on the edge of his chair, galaxian eyes focused intently on John's face.

John cleared his throat and shook his head. "No…thanks."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and brought his fingers into a steeple beneath his bottom lip, his now-vacant eyes confirming that he was in deep thought.

John ducked his head, averting his gaze from Sherlock's intense observation. His eyes traveled to the top of the page and began to sweep across each word on the page, but not registering them. His mind was elsewhere, not able to focus on anything but the metaphorical holes from Sherlock's stare being burned into John's figure.

John suddenly slammed his book down on the side table, harder than he meant to. "Can I help you?" He snapped, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "John, um," his gaze flicked away for a second before returning, his eyes less vacant than before, "you are the only person I know that can hide something from me, knowing how to keep it hidden from my deductions…"

"And?" John replied, his anger disguising the fear rising in his throat.

"You're hiding something…_currently_." Sherlock replied, not missing a beat.

John felt the fear bubble over and his hand tremble slightly. He hoped the detective had missed it, but sadly, he knew that was too good to be true. "And how did you come to that conclusion, Mr. I-can-deduce-everything?" He growled.

A flash of hurt washed over Sherlock's face in an instant, almost too quick to notice…_almost_. He took a deep breath and John knew exactly what was coming; an in-depth deduction that would usually end in a 'brilliant!', 'amazing!', or a speechless admiration, but since the deduction was against him, John got ready to hold his tongue.

"When you entered the flat, you were relieved to see that I was not in my usual place, saving you from a 'whirlwind of deductions', as you like to call them. You then proceeded to slump down into your chair, failing to remove your coat as you were distracted, to say the least," John glanced down at his coat and began to defend the action, but Sherlock cut him off before he could explain, "and before you say, 'it's cold in here', you should rethink your excuse. You're positively _dripping_ with sweat, John."

John wiped his brow and sighed in defeat. "That doesn't mean I have something to hide, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly, "I wasn't done." He took another deep breath and continued, "You began to read, but after a paragraph, you stopped. Your eyes stayed glued to one spot for a solid time of two minutes. Seeing as you're a grown man, I highly doubt you were stuck on a word, especially one from a book called 'Your Life and You'." Sherlock frowned, "Seriously, John? 'Your Life and You'? What is this? Junior High?" John began to protest, but Sherlock spoke over him, "Then there's the fact that you didn't even notice that I had come into the room, sat down in the chair, and watched you for, what seemed to be, a full minute-and-a-half. During which time, I studied your reactions. You were in a mode that I have seen many times before."

John scowled. "What mode?"

"War-mode. Your eyes were darker, your smile was less than friendly, and the aura you gave off was…chilling." Sherlock suppressed a shudder.

"You read auras now?" John mocked, standing and turning towards the kitchen.

"Ah, that brings up another fact. I asked you if you wanted tea, you said no."

John didn't turn around, "So?"

"I never make tea." Sherlock responded, his voice right behind John.

John hadn't heard him get up. He jumped when he turned and Sherlock was closer than he thought. John opened his mouth to retort, but closed it when he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Tell me I'm wrong." Sherlock stepped closer, making John tense up. "Tell me that you aren't lying, just tell me."

"I'm not lying." John straightened his back in an act of trying confidence.

Sherlock stepped closer, eyebrow cocked upwards. "Really?" He asked, disbelieving.

"Really." John spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to get some sleep." John walked away from the consulting detective, trying to hide his diminishing confidence.

"John, don't lie to me," Sherlock called after him, "friends don't lie."

John turned, one step away from being out of sight, "You're right. Friends _don't_ lie." John stomped up the stairs and slammed the door, knowing Sherlock had gotten the event he was referring to.

John balled his fists and fought the urge to punch the wall. How could Sherlock tell him not to lie when Sherlock had been a part of the biggest lie of all. Three years, _three years_ he had been 'dead', making John spiral into a deep depression. And Sherlock had the gall to tell _John_ not to lie? So, what, Sherlock could lie, but John couldn't?

_Hypocrite. _


	2. Chapter 2- Liar Liar

**_Chapter Title: Liar Liar _**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)_**

**_Words: 1,845_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D_**

John's eyes fluttered open with sudden feeling of being watched. He rolled over and blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. The clock read two in the morning, _way_ too early to be awake.

John became aware of ragged breathing behind him, somewhere far in the dark corners of the room. He closed his eyes and rolled back over, knowing exactly who was watching him.

"Jim," He addressed sleepily, sitting up against his headboard.

"Good job, Johnny boy! I never thought you'd be able to identify me by my breathing, but sure enough, you just did!" He sang, his voice slightly above a whisper.

"Yeah, well, being in the war heightens your senses." John stretched his arms out in front of him and winced as the scar tissue overextended too far.

Moriarty switched the lamp beside him, the light engulfing the room in dim light. "You smashed your phone, Johnny. Now how am I supposed to reach you?"

John yawned, "You're not."

Moriarty put on a mock pout. "_But, John," _He whined_,_ "we work so well together." His pout melted into a smirk, his eyes growing darker.

John glared, "I don't work with _criminals_, not anymore."

Moriarty stood, flattening the wrinkles that had formed on his Westwood suit from sitting in John's desk chair as he watched the blogger sleep. He slowly started to approach John, taking each step quietly but quickly as to not disturb the light-sleeper landlady two floors down. "Don't you miss the old times? _You_," he paused, taking another step, "_me_," he grinned, getting closer with another stride, "_Seb_," his eyes twinkled evilly as he finally reached the edge of John's bed, "striking terror into Londoners hearts. You miss it, don't you?"

"Not in the slightest," John growled, tensing as Moriarty sat on the edge, the bed sinking slightly with Moriarty's weight.

Moriarty leaned closer to John's figure, "You say one thing, but your blue eyes say another."

John's nostrils flared, "Get out. _Now_."

Moriarty just smiled, his teeth shimmering pearl white despite the poor lighting.

"Hell, how did you even get in here?" John knew Sherlock would've been up, either sprawled out on the couch with his limbs splayed in different directions or pacing the floor, bored out of his mind.

Moriarty acted shocked. "You underestimate me, John Watson! To think, I've known you all these years and you still don't know what I can do? Hurtful, Johnny boy, very hurtful."

John groaned, "What did you do? Tie him up? Drug him? Knock him out?" John guessed, hoping it wasn't something that would have lasting effects on the violinist.

"Just a little prick in the neck, nothing too horrible." Moriarty smiled wickedly, "I'm not a monster, Johnny boy. I do have a heart, believe it or not."

John rolled his eyes. "You drugged him, great. That means he'll wake up expecting an answer as to how he fell asleep."

Moriarty stared, "What's so strange about falling asleep?"

John laughed, "You don't know Sherlock. He doesn't sleep for weeks when he's on a case."

"And?"

"He's on a case," John replied, rubbing his hands against his face and ruffling his hair.

Moriarty nodded, "Oh." He let a beat of silence pass until he added, "Well, I wish you the best of luck on explaining it. You've proven to be brilliant in the act of telling lies," He winked.

John sighed, "Just tell me what you want, Jim." Moriarty opened his mouth, but John cut him off, "But before you ask, I will not: kill anyone, kidnap anyone, threaten anyone, beat anyone up, or do anything that will endanger anyone's life. Kidnapping and torturing Gerald until he revealed your _precious_ hard-drive's location was the last favor, Jim. I will never _ever_ do it again."

Moriarty smiled gleefully, "But that's the thing, John! I don't believe that! We both know you miss the war, and this, my dear blogger, is war." His eyes narrowed, "You will do anything I ask of you, Johnny boy. _Believe_ me."

John smirked, "Oh, really? And how do you expect to make me do anything you ask?"

Moriarty shrugged, "Oh, I don't know…maybe I could pay a little visit to your dear parents, or maybe that sweet sister of yours? Oh, she does seem _fun_!"

John's smirk fell, "You touch them, I swear-"

"What? You swear _what_? That you'll kill me? Come now, John, that's a little hard to believe, don't you think?" Moriarty grinned, enjoying every minute of John's nervousness. "Nobody has ever come _close_ to killing me, and trust me, a lot of people have tried. Though, I don't have the faintest idea why!" He chirped, his voice getting higher with every word.

John was fuming, his face getting beat red. "Don't you dare do anything to hurt them, Jim! If you do _anything_ to endanger their lives, I will spend the rest of my life tracking you down and I will kill you, savoring the feel of my hands wrapped tightly around your neck…crushing your windpipe."

"Dark, Johnny," a smirk pulled at his lips, "I like it. But really, I wouldn't set your goals too high because that is never going to happen. Just because you're a soldier doesn't mean you'll be any different from the professional snipers and contract killers that have tried before…and miserably failed, I might add. They each met their fate, and you'll meet yours before you even have a chance to fire a shot. Seb will make sure of that." Moriarty's smirk turned into a sardonic grin, "Your precious family will live just as long as you do every single thing I say."

John sighed in defeat, "Fine. Just leave them out of this."

Moriarty's hand shot out and captured John's wrist. He forced John's hand into a palm and set a phone down into the flat of his hand. He pushed John's fingers around the phone and leaned in, the smile absent from his lips, his 'serious' face on (well, as serious as Jim Moriarty could get), "Stay available, and Johnny boy?"

John looked up into his eyes, a tired look on his face.

"Don't break this one."

…

Sherlock groaned and stretched, theatrically rolling off the couch. "What the Hell?"

John looked up from his book and smirked. "Sleep well?"

Sherlock stared up at him. "How did I even fall asleep? The last thing I remember is being in my mind palace…" He strained to remember just how he had fallen asleep. Usually, he was so careful not to succumb to the lulls of sleep that pestered him within his mind.

"Maybe you just drifted off. You _have_ been awake since Thursday." John spoke, not looking up from his book.

"What day is it?" Sherlock sat up, his curls poking out in various directions.

"Tuesday."

"I don't understand! I usually don't fall asleep until the case has been solved! Do you know how much time has been wasted now?" Sherlock whined, ruffling his curls into a messier style. He stood, plopping down on the couch face first. "Oh, John…This is terrible," he muttered against the cushions.

"You know, you could always stop whining and just get back to what you were doing," John pointed out, raising his eyebrows at the detective's childish behavior.

"But the facts, John! They aren't fresh in my mind!" Sherlock sighed, "Now I have to review every fact and file again!"

"Drama queen," John muttered.

"Name calling, John? Really?" Sherlock looked up from the cushions and frowned at the ex-soldier. "Ugh, how did this happen? Why me?"

"Oh, boo-hoo. You got some much needed rest, poor you," John snapped, a little too harshly.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, hurt flashed across the detective's features.

John set his book down and sighed, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean it." John watched as Sherlock set his head back down, "Sherlock?"

"Call Lestrade, tell him that he will have to solve this case all on his own" Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock," John sighed, "I'm sorry that you fell asleep, but you can't just give up on the case because you took a five hour nap."

Sherlock visibly sighed. "It just doesn't make sense! I don't remember anything after my mind palace…it's almost like I was drugged…"

A text pinged in on John's cell, distracting from John's immediate anxiety at Sherlock's guess –err, well, deduction. He picked it up, his hands shaking. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that it wasn't the phone that Moriarty had gifted to him, but his personal cell. "It's Mycroft. He requests your expertise."

Sherlock scoffed. "If he wants my help, he can come here and ask in person." Sherlock smiled, "But he won't. Pride thing," he clarified, noting John's confused reaction.

"Oh, sibling rivalry?"

"Hm."

Another text came in and John read it off. "Sibling rivalry is juvenile, we simply do not get along…wait, how in the Hell…?" John looked around at the flat, "He has bloody microphoned cameras in our flat?"

"Problem?" Sherlock mumbled, raising his head. "It's not like we are shagging or anything."

John went red, "No…uh, I-"John cut himself off. If Mycroft had cameras trained on them 24/7, he had surely seen everything that had happened there…including Moriarty's visit.

Sherlock was about to call John out on his anxiety and sudden tense state, but another text alert on John's phone beat him to it.

John looked down at the text, and this time he didn't read it aloud.

_I think it's time we have a little chat, Doctor Watson. –MH _

**_A/N: Thanks! Please favorite, follow, and review! Virtual cookies to those who do all three! :D Thank you's to those who do any of the three! ;D  
*Still need a beta if anyone is interested!*_**


	3. Chapter 3- The Game Begins

**_Chapter Title: The Game Begins_**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)_**

**_Words: 2,249_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D_**

John steeled his nerves and stood from his chair, pocketing his phone. "Milk?"

Sherlock's head snapped up so fast that John was afraid he was going to have whiplash, "What?"

"Do we need milk?" John asked, clarifying his question.

"Uh, yes…Indeed we do…" Sherlock eyed John with such intensity, that John glared at him.

"Stop that," John demanded, shrugging his coat on. "I'll be home in twenty, put the kettle on, will you?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, setting his head down again.

"Thought so," John sighed, knowing he had asked too much. "Just…don't blow anything up while I'm gone, yeah?"

"One time, John. That was _one_ time," Sherlock huffed, "besides, the experiment I am conducting currently has nothing to do with explosives."

"Knowing you, you'd still find a way to create an explosion."

"Ha," Sherlock laughed dryly, "So funny."

John smirked, taking his leave.

He hopped down the stairs and exited their flat, the door slamming shut behind him.

Sure enough, a black car was parked at the curb, windows tinted so black that you couldn't see the people within.

The driver exited the car and ran to the other side of the black vehicle, opening the side door for John to slide in next to 'Anthea'.

"John," Anthea greeted as John slid in next to her, the car pulling away from the curb.

John noticed the absence of Mycroft's secretary's blackberry –the same blackberry that had been her excuse for not looking at him. Now, her figure was tense and fidgety, her texting fingers tapping the hem of her skirt restlessly. Her attention was directed through the windshield of the car, her eyes scanning the road in front of her.

"Lost?" John chuckled.

"Sorry, what?" Anthea met his gaze, her surprisingly bright brown eyes leaving him breathless.

John swallowed to moisten his throat, "Um," he coughed, his throat still dry, "I was just saying… you look lost without your phone…"

Anthea looked down at her empty hands, "Oh, yes…_Apparently_, I can't text on the job…anymore."

John laughed, "You call riding around in a car picking up contacts for mysterious meetings _work_?"

"Yes, actually, Dr. Watson," Anthea defended herself, clenching her twitching fingers into a fist.

"Anthea, I didn't mean-"

"We're here," Anthea cut him off, snapping her head away to look out her window.

John nodded sadly, knowing he had burned that bridge, for good. He stepped out of the car and thanked the driver for holding the door open for him. The driver seemed scared as John spoke, his body tensing and his features growing anxious. He looked away and slammed the door after John had exited the vehicle, scurrying to the driver's side and putting pedal to the metal, racing away from John's confused figure.

John breathed out heavily, straightening his back and striding, with confidence, into the now-familiar abandoned power complex. His shoes thudded across the cement, echoing off the walls and retreating back to him in sound waves, making it seem like multiple people were walking through the building. He emerged further into the room and made a complete circle, his feet carrying him into the middle of the large work-room.

"Mycroft?" John called, his voice echoing and bouncing off the walls.

John heard an unmistakable clicking of an umbrella on the floor, coming toward him. He circled and saw what he was looking for.

Mycroft was slowly approaching, using his signature umbrella as a cane. "Dr. Watson," he addressed, "sit down, won't you?"

John quirked an eyebrow and jumped when he felt two pairs of hands shoving him into a cold, metal chair that had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He complied with their actions, letting them sit him in the chair. Once he was seated, the hands remained firm on his shoulders.

Mycroft came to rest, his form resting his weight on the umbrella, and crossing one foot in front of the other. He scanned John head-to-toe and frowned. "It seems we have a problem."

John tried his hardest to hide his anxiety, now threatening to arise. "We do?"

"Yes," Mycroft squinted, "but first, how is my dear brother?"

"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You don't care; just tell me what I'm here for," John growled, his tone implying the losing of patience.

"Very well, then," Mycroft sighed, "I invited you here-"

"Kidnapped, not invited, _kidnapped_." John corrected him, shooting him a glare.

"If you wish to call it that, so be it, but back to what I was saying… I invited, or 'kidnapped', you here because I have a problem that needs to be explained and/or fixed. Last night, I _happened_ to be glancing at the live security footage of your flat," John scoffed at this, but Mycroft ignored him, "and I noticed a glitch."

"So what? All cameras have glitches; it's probably just a technology issue. If that's what you require help with, well you'll be needing someone more equipped for the job." John glanced up at the two men holding him in the chair, "Can I go now?"

Mycroft shook his head, "That's not the problem, John. The problem is that it not only glitched, but _paused_. The frame was frozen as though someone had hacked my systems and paused it intentionally. They obviously knew that the cameras were there and wanted to keep their identity a secret."

John understood now, and relief flooded him. Moriarty had hired someone to hack Mycroft's servers so that he could make an unseen appearance. Say what you want about Moriarty, but he was an absolute genius when it came to going unseen. "So, where do I come in?"

Mycroft stared at him, never blinking, "_That_ I don't know, John."

Realization hit John like a ton bricks, "And you think I have something to do with the glitch?" John paused, watching Mycroft's sullen features, "You do, don't you? You think I had a hand in messing with your bloody technology!" John shrugged the hands off and stood, "That's why I'm here, isn't it? To question me? To _interrogate_ me?"

"Now, there's no need to get upset, John," Mycroft spoke, "I merely wanted to ask you if you had any idea who could be behind it…"

"Bullocks," John glowered, "You don't trust me, do you, Mycroft? You think I'm a bloody criminal!"

"I never said-"

"No, no –you know what? I don't need this!" John threw up his hands in fury, "How about you kidnap someone else for a change, huh? Someone who would actually be worth talking to." John took a hostile step toward the two guards that had held him down before he turned to Mycroft. "Stay out of my life. I'm sick of being picked off the streets by you and I'm _sick_ of this godforsaken power complex!" John clenched his fists angrily and held them at his sides to keep himself from lashing out at the elder Holmes brother.

"There is no need to be cross, Jonathan," Mycroft frowned. "You wish to leave, so be it. You wish for me to stay out of your life, I will make myself scarce, but not leave entirely." Mycroft produced his phone and pressed a button, "Bring the car. Dr. Watson wishes to leave."

John undid his fists and nodded once, "Thank you." He exited the building, leaving the stunned Holmes behind him.

Mycroft stood, watching the ex-army doctor leave the building in a rush of anger. He unlocked his phone, and shot out a text to his second secretary back at the Diogenes Club.

_Upgrade Doctor Watson's security status to a level 5. He is definitely hiding something. -MH_

…

John climbed the stairs, his cover story in the plastic bag he was holding. He entered the flat and sighed, "You haven't moved, I see." He stared at the detective, still resting, face-down, on the couch.

"You were out longer than you said you would be," Sherlock mumbled, still moping about the time lost on the case –the same case that he had now abandoned without so much as a call to Lestrade.

"Yes, well, I ran into Sarah," he lied, "and we got to talking…"

"You're going on a date, then." Sherlock shot up from his spot on the couch and paced the floor. "This is wonderful, John!"

"What is?" John sat the plastic bag on the table and took the milk out of the bag. He opened the fridge and almost threw up from the stench of rotting flesh, "And what have I told you about storing your 'experiments' in the fridge?!". He set the milk on the high shelf that had been reserved for food and drink, and shut the door to escape the stench.

Sherlock ignored John's outburst and began to excitedly pace the room, "I'll be able to test if broken relationships can be repaired!"

"What kind of experiment is _that_?" John eyed him suspiciously.

"An interesting one, John! A very interesting test on the limits of your sentiment!" Sherlock smiled, almost bouncing from the excitement. "Seeing as I am not one privy to the emotions that come with sentiment, this will be an interesting experiment that will yield very conclusive data on just how far your sentiment levels will go!"

"Sentiment levels?" John knitted his brows together and stared at the detective. "What in the bloody Hell are 'sentiment levels'?"

"Sentiment levels, limit of attachments or emotions. As I recall, you and Sarah did not leave off on too friendly of a note. So, if she wanted to give it another try, this 'date' will produce a certain level, if you will, on how low you are willing to go for a date that will undoubtedly lead to sex."

John gaped, "You're ridiculous."

"No, I'm bored." Sherlock sighed, massaging his temples.

"You're desperate for a case, aren't you?" John deduced, knowing the experiment would usually be dubbed dull unless he were _truly_ bored.

"Great deduction, John, _really_." His voice dripped with sarcasm, making John sigh.

"How about instead of whining that you don't have a case and desperately trying to find random experiments to conduct, why don't you solve the once Lestrade needs you to?" John asked, preparing the kettle for tea.

Sherlock sighed, defeated, "Fine." He dramatically plopped down in the chair and began to study the files, _again_. After a moment, he shoved it away, "It was the sister."

"How –oh, never mind." John sat and watched as Sherlock began to pace. "You might want to call Lestrade, Sherlock."

"Ah, he can figure it out." Sherlock smirked, "It was child's play."

"Yes, to you maybe, but you're the smartest person in London –maybe even the world. In fact, I recall you saying that the Yard cannot solve anything to save their sorry arses." John stood to get the kettle, and mixed the tea. He set a cup down on the table for Sherlock and held one in his grip for himself.

Sherlock chuckled, "You really believe that, do you? That I'm the smartest individual alive?"

"I do," John assured him, taking a cautious sip of his hot tea.

Sherlock's lips cracked into a smile, "John, I-"

_Ding!_

Sherlock sighed, "Oh that must be Sarah." He faced away from John and rolled his eyes.

John blinked, "What –oh, yes…that must be her." He mentally kicked himself for almost blowing his cover. He set down his tea and brought out the device.

John looked at his phone and frowned.

No new texts…

John's heart stopped.

The other phone…

He stood and pretended to reply to a text from Sarah. "Well, Sherlock, I'll be off. I'll be home around midnight, so don't wait up for me."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "You think I'll be sleeping?"

"Just try and sleep…for me?" John smiled.

"If you think adding 'for me' would make me agree to sleeping, you're wrong, John."

"I know…" John sighed, "I'll see you later, then."

Sherlock nodded, setting his lean figure comfortably on the couch, and closed his eyes, retreating to his mind palace and trying not to think of John going on another date with Sarah. _Damn Sarah._

John closed the door to the flat as he stepped out and produced his phone from his jacket pocket.

The text was as sinisterly playful as the one who had sent it.

_And the game begins… -JM_

_Please Fav/Follow/Review! Thanks! (The reviews will be my birthday present ;D)_


	4. Chapter 4- Forgive Me

**_Chapter Title: Forgive Me_**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)_**

**_Words: 2,862_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D_**

**_A/N: Just a note- This chapter will have less of bamf!John, but you will see more of him as the story progresses. _**

_And the game begins… -JM_

John sighed at the text. He didn't want to play this idiotic game with the most notorious criminal mastermind in history, but what choice did he have? Jim threatened his family and he would do absolutely anything to keep them safe.

John bit the inside of his cheek as possible ideas for what Moriarty had in store for him came flashing through his mind. What on Earth could Moriarty have in mind for John's first 'task'?

He made his way down the steps –slowly, trying to prolong the horrible day he was about to have. He reached the door and put his hand on the knob, taking a deep breath before he stepped out into the fresh air. He began to search the street for Jim; he had to be somewhere close.

Instead, he was greeted by a sleek black car, windows tinted.

"Not now, Mycroft," John groaned, rolling his eyes.

The side door opened and a sardonic grin matched with soulless eyes were staring back at him, "Not Mycroft this time, Johnny boy."

John clenched his fists and yanked the car door open. He slid into the backseat of the car and pulled the door shut. "You better hope Sherlock hasn't seen me getting into the car or the deal is off."

"He is preoccupied at the moment, John," Sebastian Moran looked at John in the rearview mirror, "he's in his…mind palace, was it? We have someone watching the flat regularly, giving updates on your whereabouts and also watching your flat-mate. We wouldn't want him to get suspicious and spoil our good fun."

John nodded, feeling anxious about Seb using the word 'fun' to describe their activities. That was never a good sign. "Good. I don't want him to know anything about this, Sebastian, or anything about my past, got it?"

Sebastian nodded and put the car in drive, pulling away from the curb.

Moriarty turned around in the passenger seat to face John, "Johnny boy, I'm so _glad_ you decided to play my little game. I know we are going to have _a lot_ of fun."

John scoffed in response. He turned to look out the window and watched London fly by. "So what exactly are you going to make me do today?"

Moriarty grinned, "An extermination job. Nothing too difficult for our old boy, Johnny! Right, Seb?" Jim turned to Seb and they exchanged a devious smile.

Seb looked back at the road, "Right."

John felt an uneasy feeling settle in the pit of his stomach, "And just _who_ is my target?"

Moriarty turned back to the ex-army doctor, "Let's just say they'll trust you enough to allow you to enter their home. All you have to do is put a bullet in their brain and then you'll be out of there. No cops, no problem. Just one little kill and your first job is complete."

"And just how many jobs do you have in store for me before I can retire from this 'partnership'?" John watched Moriarty's features harden.

"Like Seb said, Johnny, we wouldn't want our fun to end too soon." He turned back to the front and stared ahead.

John closed his eyes and felt his fear rising into his throat. He swallowed to try and force the lump back down his throat, but it stayed put. He tried to speak, but it came out raspy, "How long will I be doing this with you?"

"Depends," Moriarty replied quickly.

"On what?"

"How long you last."

"We're here." Sebastian pulled over to the curb and glanced back at John. "Off you go to kill our little pest."

John felt his pockets, "I don't have a-"

Moriarty stuffed a large gun into his lap and Seb handed his a small pistol. "Choose your weapon of choice. Either you can kill her from that rooftop over there, or you can make it personal by engaging in a conversation with her. If the latter, I'd preferably use the small gun. It's easier to hide," Moriarty suggested.

"Her…?" John swallowed thickly. He tried to remember all the women he had met in his years after the war, but he couldn't think with Seb and Jim staring at him. Moriarty had said that his target would trust him, so that must mean he knew the woman. Old crush? Old lover? No, too boring and obvious for him.

"Yes,_ her_," Seb grinned, "Now, off you pop." He grabbed the larger gun back and motioned for John to exit the car.

John got out of the car slowly, hating himself for going along with this so easily. He should just let Moriarty and Seb kill him, but what good would that do? With him gone, there was nobody to protect his family and Sherlock. They'd be as good as dead with John out of the picture.

Moriarty rolled down the window, "A car will be waiting for you in an alley two blocks from here. Get in and get out without getting caught, yeah? We'd hate for the-"

"-fun to be over so soon, yeah, I got it," John finished Jim's sentence, venom layering his tone.

Moriarty smiled, "Just like old times, huh?" With that, he rolled the window up and left John alone on the street.

John looked up at the building and tried to place it. He knew it was familiar somehow, but with so many thoughts clouding his mind, he couldn't seem to remember when or where he'd seen it before. Old girlfriends and crushes were out, seeing as it was too dull for Moriarty's tastes. Or maybe that's what Jim wanted, for John to think it wasn't a girlfriend…Or was that another part of Jim's plan, to make John overthink everything about the task?

John massaged his temples. He was getting a headache from all these questions without answers. Moriarty knew how to get to him, it was just too easy, he guessed.

John tried forgetting all about who could be on the other side of the door, not knowing that their end was fast-approaching. He tried to pretend that this was just another criminal and that Sherlock would want them dead, but no matter how much he told himself that, he knew Sherlock would think of it as wrong. Anybody would –well anybody but the criminal classes. It got harder and harder to take each step closer to the door, but after what seemed like minutes, but what could've only been seconds, he was at the front door, knocking. He shoved the gun into the back of his waistband and waited.

The door opened and immediately John forgot about trying to pretend he didn't know her…because he _did_ know her. He knew her well.

"Oh, John, I'm sorry, but I'm not working today," she smiled, looking behind him, "is Sherlock with you?"

John swallowed to ease his dry throat, "Um, no…actually…just me today."

She seemed disappointed for a moment, but opened her door for him to come in anyway, "Oh, well I just put the kettle on. It'll be a few before tea is ready. You're welcome to come in and join me for tea, then."

John stepped in her flat and was met with an overwhelming scent of vanilla and jasmine. He followed her to the kitchen and sat in one of her kitchen chairs.

He watched as she busied herself in preparing the tea for the two of them. He couldn't do this. He absolutely could _not _do this.

"Would you like any biscuits? Cookies, maybe? I just baked a batch; you should try them." She grabbed an oven mitt and protected her hand with it. She opened her oven and produced a tray of twelve chocolate chip cookies, their surfaces perfectly golden brown. She offered the tray and John peeled one off of the burning hot cookie-sheet, not giving a damn if it burned his fingers. He was so numb by the fact that he was going to have to kill her, that he didn't feel it blistering his fingers.

He nibbled on the cookie, watching as she switched off the flame to the kettle and prepared the tea, mixing in a spot of milk.

She returned to the table with a plate of cookies and two cups of steaming hot tea. "Here you are, John. It's a bit hot, so be careful!"

John reached for the cup and took a huge gulp, ignoring the searing pain. He wished and prayed that this was all a dream and he would wake up from this nightmare, but as the tea burned his gums, he knew he was awake…and stuck in this mess. He really should've just used the larger gun and shot her through her window; it would've been much easier. He wouldn't have had to bother with her dying with the memory of who killed her. But, now, as he sat watching her sip her tea, he knew that either way, it was going to be a horrible death, knowing who had killed her or not.

"Um…I don't know how to say this…" John paused, watching her place her teacup on the table.

"Yes, John?"

"Uh…I –I'm sorry…" She began to ask why, but stopped when she saw the gun in his hands.

"J-John, what are y-you doing?" She stuttered, standing up from the chair, her hip hitting and shaking the table, causing the cup to rattle on the saucer. Her wide eyes were staring at the gun, her mouth open in shock.

John felt tears sting at his eyes, "I'm so sorry…I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to…I hope you can forgive me…" Tears began to stream down his face, some dripping off his chin and onto the floor.

"J-John, don't! Please! Whoever is making you do this, we can get Sherlock to stop them!" She suggested, frantically making up solutions.

"I'm sorry, but Sherlock can't help me. It's his life on the line, along with many others. You have to understand that there is no way out of this," John clicked the gun off safety and placed his finger securely on the trigger.

She began to sob uncontrollably, hyperventilating as she watched him place his finger on the trigger, "John, this isn't you. You can stop it, whoever is forcing you to do this, they aren't in charge of you. They can't make you do something you don't want to do; you're in charge of your life, not anyone else. Not Moriarty."

John tensed, "You know…"

She nodded, "I know_ you_, John. You wouldn't do this…" She began to feel hopeful that she was getting through to him, "John, I can help you. I can call Lestrade and we can get protection for you and your family."

"He'll find a way."

"No, he won't. Lestrade will make sure you will all be safe," she looked into his eyes, pleading with him, "Don't do this, John. Don't give in to him…you're better than that."

John wiped his tears with the hand that wasn't pointing the gun at her and ducked his head. He felt the adrenaline start coursing through his veins and the thrill of the kill rise over his nerves, "No, no I'm really not. I'm a soldier. I was born to kill and serve. Who I serve is my business, criminal or not." He pulled the trigger with less hesitancy than before and watched her drop to the ground, clutching her chest.

She looked up at him with fearful eyes, wide and fading, "J-John," she gasped, "I f-forgive y-you…" She started to shake and her eyes became distant.

John looked down and felt the adrenaline subside, remorse filling its gap, "I'm sorry." He took one last shot, a bullet through the brain as Moriarty demanded.

Her head snapped back and blood painted the walls. Her hands that were clenching her chest went limp, and her breathing stopped. Blood began to pour out of the wounds fast, causing John to gag.

He had been a doctor, not a killer! Sure, he had killed for Moriarty before, but that was when Sherlock was dead. When he had nothing to live for. He had all that pent up anger and he went with the wrong crowd. He had become a criminal while Sherlock was 'dead', but now, as he watched the young girl bleed out on her kitchen floor, he knew that was what he'd always been.

A criminal.

…

John climbed out of the window and dropped onto the cement. He jogged through the back-alleys, searching for his getaway car.

He soon found it and climbed in, hearing wailing police sirens in the distance.

"So, Johnny boy, was that fun or what?" Moriarty grinned back at him, this time he was the one driving.

"Get me home, now," John growled.

"Like that?" Moriarty gestured to John's clothes.

John looked down and nearly vomited.

Blood. Blood was everywhere.

He should've known he'd be covered in it, but he was too engrossed in the horror of what he had just done.

"How about we clean you up first, huh, Johnny boy?" Moriarty turned the key and the car roared to life. "We've got to get you home in time for the case."

"What case?" John croaked out, his ragged breathing close to hyperventilation.

"Your targets, of course! You didn't think you'd just kill the girl and be done with it, did you? Oh, no, Johnny. You don't get it, that's not the game. The game is just starting!"

John started to tremble slightly, "You said before that the game depends on how long I last…what did you mean by that?"

Moriarty looked at him in the mirror, "Oh, Johnny, I thought you'd catch on by now! I said I'd burn the heart out of your little friend, and I did. Now it's your turn. I want to see how much death it takes for you to finally break. Either that, or…"

"Or my death," John finished the sentence quietly.

"Exactly," Moriarty confirmed, "Now, tell me. Did your hand tremble at all?"

John thought back to it and felt even worse than before.

It didn't.

…

Sherlock was pacing the flat by the time John returned home. "John, where the Hell have you been? I've been texting you for three hours now!"

John looked at the clock. Three hours? He didn't think it had been that long. He swallowed, "I guess I just lost track of the time…"

Sherlock was at his side in an instant, "John, are you alright?"

John moved away from him and sat in his chair, "Yes."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, "You smell like disinfectant…"

John froze, "Yeah, well you've seen Sarah. She's a nutty neat-freak."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with the answer, "So I take the date didn't end well?"

John sighed, "You could say that."

Sherlock felt pleasure overcome him at the thought of Sarah never taking his John from him again. _His John? Where did that come from…? _

A text pinged in on Sherlock's cell and he bounced over to it, happy about finally getting a new case and that John was free from that woman. His smile dropped as he read the text.

"John…" He shoved the phone in front of John's face.

John didn't want to read it; he knew what it said. "What?"

Sherlock's tone showed no emotion –the usual when he was affected by death of a 'friend' or colleague.

"Molly's been murdered."

**_I'm sorry, so sorry. I had to! I took a poll and Molly lost :( Please don't hate me…_**

**_Please favorite/follow/review!~ _**


	5. Chapter 5- Stressed

**_Chapter Title: Stressed_**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)_**

**_Words: 2,560_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D _**

**ALMOST THREE YEARS AGO – A MONTH AFTER THE FALL**

"Strange, isn't it? Seems like just yesterday you were classified as half of the greatest criminal catching duo in history, and now you're here, looking for a job," Sebastian smiled at the ex-army doctor before him, "Jim'll be happy to see you, John. He's been looking for a new hire."

"Just lead me to him," he growled, using a glare he usually reserved for Sherlock when he was being especially annoying.

Seb simmered at the demanding tone, but obliged. He led John down a dark hallway, turning left down another, smaller hallway that branched out from the main. He stopped halfway to make sure John was still trailing, and opened the door to Jim's office. "Sir, you have a guest."

"Send him in," Moriarty didn't look up from the paper he was reading, motioning for whoever his guest was to come in with a wave of his hand.

John entered the room, cataloguing the details of the room. He noticed the expensive furnishings –though this did not surprise him seeing as Moriarty was constantly used as a consulting criminal and had the uppermost price for his services.

"Sit down," he sent a dismissive wave Seb's way, "Make yourself at home." Only when John sat in one of the two white chairs with diamond encrusted frames did Jim Moriarty look up from his paper.

John was prepared for anything. Ridicule, anger, _anything_.

_Except_ for what_ did_ happen.

"Finally!" Jim grinned. "I must say, Johnny boy, it's about time! Took you longer than I expected to be honest."

John gaped, "What?"

"It's been over a month, John! I expected you exactly thirty days ago," Jim sighed, "I could always see it in you, Johnny. I could always see that spark in your eye whenever the situation presented itself as being dangerous. It was just a matter of time before you'd come to realize being on the side of the heroes is _boring_," he droned. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, "What finally made you turn, Johnny? What made you snap?"

John grit his teeth to hold back a snarky comment, "The fall."

"Ah, yes. Your best friend's death. Bit sad…" Jim sighed dramatically, "If only the poor bloke would've had the bright idea to fake his death like the rest of us –by 'the rest of us' I mean me and all the other famous criminals running around the streets of London having faked their own suicide. Not that hard, actually, faking your death and all." Moriarty watched as John tensed and fed off of it. "That Sherlock of yours and yourself were close; do I detect a bit of romance?" He winked.

"No. Now, if you excuse me, I came for a job, not an interrogation into my personal life," John growled, "I know I'm qualified, so just hire me."

"Oh, feisty," Jim smirked, "It fits you, John."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"I want your help, _dear lord _do I want your help," Moriarty gleamed, "You're hired just as long as you can prove to me you're trustworthy."

"How?"

"Your first assignment, Johnny boy! How exciting!" Jim hopped from his chair and received a phone from his safe. He set the phone down in front of John and waved him away. "Go on now, prove yourself."

John knitted his brows together, "You didn't give me an assignment…"

Jim huffed, "The phone, my dear boy, the phone! I told you I was anticipating your arrival, so I made a phone jam-packed with information you'll need in the field. Your first assignment is in Cardiff; Jim Reshin is the man you're after. The rest is on the phone. Kill him without leaving evidence –or witnesses- and I'll hire you, full time. No funny business, John, I don't want to have to kill you on your first day!"

John picked up the phone and began to scroll through all the information stored on it, "There are more names on here…"

"Yes," Jim smiled mischievously, "just in case you're feeling a little ambitious."

John stuffed the phone into his pocket and stood, "I will not disappoint."

"Oh, I know you won't," Jim smiled.

John began to exit when Moriarty added something.

"Oh, and Johnny boy," John could almost _hear_ the smirk, "It could be dangerous."

…

Sherlock stood in the doorway to Molly's kitchen, staring at the bloody scene before him.

Molly was lying beside her kitchen table, bloody hand prints by the wound in her chest, and her head snapped back in an unusual fashion due to the bullet through the brain.

Blood was pooled around her torso from the bullet in her chest and some was seeping from her head wound. Blood was splattered on the walls, making the scene feel right out of a horror movie.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade materialized beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

Sherlock snapped out of his state of shock and shrugged Lestrade's hand off, turning his focus toward the scene before him. He moved toward Molly's body, hesitantly kneeling beside her whilst being careful not to step in the blood.

John stood back from the body, his nerves on edge as he watched Sherlock's calculating scan of Molly's body. He bit the inside of his cheek and waited for Sherlock's deductions.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "One bullet to the chest first, evident by the bloody handprints on her shirt…probably caused by her clutching her chest and trying to stop the blood loss…" Sherlock moved his eyes up to her head, shuddering slightly, "Kill-shot to the head provides an important piece in just the kind of person who'd do this. The killer saw her clutching her heart and used what people classify as a 'mercy' shot. They pitied her and put her out of her misery by putting a bullet through her brain…killing her instantly," Sherlock's voice got softer with every word spoken; by the end, his voice was barely above a soft whisper. "The position of the bullet suggests that the suspect is about…5'3'' or 5'4'' feet tall. The gun was fired about a few feet away from her body which means that he either surprised her or she was frozen in fear as he came nearer. Ballistics report?"

"The bullet came from an untraceable pistol. We have no idea what specific kind of gun or where the weapon came from," Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms.

Sherlock moved away from the body, trying to hide his discomfort, and motioned to the table, "Two cups of tea, suggesting that she knew this person. She let him in and felt comfortable enough to make tea and cookies for the both of them. That's when," he motioned to the body without looking at her, "this happened."

"Him?" Lestrade asked, still in amazement at how much Sherlock could take away from the crime scene.

"Yes, _him_, obviously. Molly is not one to have many 'girlfriends'. I know of only two and I checked on the way over; they're both in America visiting family. That leaves the men in Molly's life. New boyfriend, perhaps?" Sherlock looked at the two teacups on the table and noted that one was empty. "You've already tested for DNA on the teacup, yes?"

"No, we thought it irrelevant," Lestrade sighed again, "Which doesn't make sense…I can see that now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's like working with a bunch of uneducated monkeys."

"Oi, I realized the mistake and I intend to fix it. Anderson!" Lestrade called for his forensics team leader.

Anderson moved toward the table with an evidence bag and bagged the teacup, sealing the baggie shut.

John shook himself of his shock and moved out the door, trying to slip away unnoticed, but everyone knows there is no going unnoticed when Sherlock is around.

"John? Where are you going?" Sherlock called after him.

"I need some air…" John didn't stop; he just hoped Sherlock wouldn't follow him.

Sherlock exchanged a confused look with Lestrade who just shrugged.

John exited Molly's flat and slipped into the alley. He put his back up against the bricks and closed his eyes, putting his hands over his face. "This is a disaster."

"What is?" A familiar voice whispered in his ear.

John tried to cry out, but a hand was over his mouth before a sound could escape.

"Ah, ah, Johnny. You don't want to alert the police to my presence, do you?" Sebastian removed his hand from John's mouth and wiped John's saliva off on his jeans.

John scowled, "No, that would be awful," he peered around the corner at the forensic team packing all their stuff up into the vehicle, "I'd_ love_ to be derided by you, but right now I need to get that evidence away from Anderson. The evidence he has puts me in the flat at the time of Molly's murder and you know what happens if I get caught. Our _deal_ will be off."

Seb copied John's actions and eyed the man John identified as Anderson. "You need something stolen? Leave that to me." Seb pulled a ski-mask out of his jacket and pulled it over his face. He waited until Anderson was the last of the forensic team out on the street –all of the others had either gone inside or left the scene to start processing evidence- and ducked his head down. He broke into a fast sprint and rammed into Anderson, snatching the bag from his grasp.

"Hey!" Anderson screamed, pointing after Sebastian, "He stole evidence! Get him!"

A few police officers sprinted after Sebastian who was already rounding a corner, out of sight.

John emerged from the alley and prayed that Sebastian had evaded the trailing police officers.

Sherlock ran out of the flat, having heard the scuffle outside. He ran over to John and made a quick search for injuries. "Are you alright?"

John nodded, "He didn't touch me, just Anderson. I only saw Anderson get hit; I didn't see the bloke's face."

Sherlock eyed him, "Anderson?" He looked back at the man, "You saw him?"

Anderson shook his head, "No, he was wearing a mask. He bumped into me, almost knocked me over for Christ's sakes-"

"Anderson, get to the point," Sherlock demanded, "Did he take anything?"

"The evidence bag with the teacup in it," Anderson replied, knowing he was going to be called an idiot for losing the evidence.

Sherlock balled his hand into a fist and punched the air in frustration. "Goddammit! If you lot would've done your jobs correctly, the single most important piece of evidence wouldn't be lost! You know what this means, don't you? It means that we are back at square one; no suspects."

John silently sighed in relief. _Thank God. If I'm going to be working for Moriarty and doing his dirty work, I'm going to have to be more careful not to leave any traces of me being there._

"Bunch of idiots!" Sherlock continued his rant, his voice at a point of yelling.

"Sherlock," John started, "it's not their fault; it's okay."

"No, no it's not '_okay'_, John," Sherlock snapped, "Now we have nothing! Nothing to tell us who murdered Molly!"

John sighed, "Let's just go home and review the facts. Maybe a suspect will arise and we'll find another lead."

Sherlock's nostrils flared, "Fine." He turned on his heel and began to hail a taxi cab. "Text me the pictures your foolish team took and call me if you get any leads. I'll be at the flat. Come along, John." Sherlock yanked open the cab door as it rolled to a stop.

John looked over at Lestrade, "Sorry, Lestrade. You know how he gets when a case is lost."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, "What makes you think it's lost?"

"I –I meant…you know…" John spluttered.

"I mean, I've seen Sherlock solve cases using only the tiniest piece of evidence. He could solve something like this in his sleep," Lestrade seemed to ignore John's sudden nervousness.

"Yeah…yeah," John forced a smile, "He'll solve it in no time. He just needs to simmer down."

"Yeah, what's his deal?" Lestrade crossed his arms, "I've seen him get excited about murders before, so what's so different about this one?"

John quirked an eyebrow, "Its Molly. It's strange to think she's dead now, Lestrade. I think he just needs some time and then he'll be back to the Sherlock we know and love," John smirked.

"Speak for yourself; I could get used to this different Sherlock. Sure he's a little more wound-up, but anything beats the old pain in the arse he usually is," Lestrade chuckled.

"Yeah, I gue-" Suddenly, John felt himself being dragged away from Lestrade by Sherlock, "The Hell, Sherlock?" He demanded, giving Lestrade an apologetic smile.

Sherlock glared, "I _said_ come on." He pushed John into the cab and practically yelled their address to the cabbie.

The cab began to head toward their home, silence settling itself over the duo.

John glanced sideways at Sherlock.

Sherlock caught him looking. "What?"

"What's with you?" John asked, turning to face him. "Usually you don't get so emotional at the crime scene, whether you know the victim or not."

Sherlock didn't answer.

John furrowed his brow, "Tell me what you're thinking, Sherlock. Maybe it'll relieve some of the stress you're under…" John suggested.

Sherlock whipped his head toward him. "What I'm _thinking _is how idiotic Lestrade's team is."

"Well, we all knew that," John joked, trying to ease the tension.

Sherlock blinked at him, "This is no time for jokes, John. Molly is dead and our main evidence is stolen."

"So? You'll just find a new lead, then. You always do," John snapped, annoyed by Sherlock's attitude.

"No, you don't understand. The way she was killed suggests that her murderer has killed before."

"Yes, and? What does that mean?"

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's, "It _means_ he's going to do it again."

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	6. Chapter 6- Moriarty's Marionette

**_Chapter Title: Moriarty's Marionette_**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Words: 1,515 (Short, I know. Next chapter will be much longer!)_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D _**

**_A/N: This will be a filler. Not that long, but it is necessary to the storyline. It is mostly a thought chapter, with some Mycroft suspicion. I'd like to thank TwoHeartedWallflower for all her help! Without her, I could not have been able to think of where to have this story go! She critiqued the chapter and told me what I should change and add! Thanks so much!_**

**_Oh, and I did get a tumblr! Please follow me, I always follow back! Username: benaddictfreebabe _**

**_(I know, I know; cliché) Alright, so let's get on with it!_**

Mycroft slammed his laptop shut with a frustrated yell.

He had been watching the crime scene –well, watching John, anyway. He had seen John exit the flat and descend the stairs when…BOOM…the image distorted and the frame deleted.

He had tried to hack into other cameras to view the footage from a different angle, but the same thing occurred. At the exact same moment that John was descending the stairs to the sidewalk, the image blurred, paused, and then disappeared completely. Only when Mycroft had been sure that he'd missed everything did it resume.

John was talking to Lestrade and Sherlock was hailing a cab. That was it.

He had missed everything of importance. And yes, he knew that he had missed something because something was different. Sherlock was frustrated and John was relieved. Something had gone on while the video footage was being hacked…and whatever it was included John Watson.

Mycroft put his head in his hands and schemed. He knew that John was involved in something and whatever that something was, was not good. His cameras had never acted up before and now, with John suddenly becoming his priority, did the cameras glitch. Not only that, but the doctor himself had changed. He was more anxious, more on edge. He was overly defensive when Mycroft had questioned him about the glitch; it was downright suspicious.

Mycroft lifted his head and smiled as an idea came to him; one that should've been thought of a long time ago, back when Mycroft first became suspicious. He pressed the talk button on his intercom, still smiling, "Anthea, put me through to Aaron. He's needed right away…"

"Yes, sir," Anthea replied, her voice crackling over the intercom. She pressed a button on her Blackberry, putting her through to Aaron. When the man answered, Anthea spoke, "Mycroft Holmes wishes to speak to you, I'm putting you through now." She pressed another button, sending the call to the elder Holmes brother.

Mycroft held his phone to his ear, waiting for Aaron to answer. When he heard the distinct click of a call transferred, he immediately got to the point, "Aaron, I'd like to hire you for a job."

Aaron smirked, "I'll have to see if I can fit it in, Mr. Holmes…I'm a very busy guy."

"I'll pay you generously, Aaron, just do this job and you'll receive payment."

Aaron knew this was serious; a Holmes requiring his services? This was a first. "What's the job?"

"I need you to do a little legwork. You'll have to trail someone I'm particularly interested in; do not let him out of your sight and send me hourly updates of his activities," Mycroft explained, "Do this and you'll be rewarded greatly."

Aaron quirked a brow, "Yeah, sure. What's his name?"

Mycroft grimaced, "Doctor John Watson."

…

Moriarty rubbed his hands together excitedly, ideas of future tasks for his new pet (well, relatively new, considering John had worked for him before) to do for him. "What do you think, Seb? What should our good doctor do next?"

Sebastian laid the gun he was cleaning down and smirked at his boss, "I think it's time to up the ante. We already know he enjoys killing –whether he'll admit to it or not, so…I think another extermination job is in order, but this time, more personal."

Moriarty smiled, "Lets save that for the future. I was thinking more along the lines of something a little more…explosive." An evil twinkle sparkled in his irises.

Sebastian grinned, "Sounds fun."

"You don't think it's too dull, do you? It does seem like a step down…" Moriarty asked, sighing.

Sebastian smirked, "Not at all, sir. We have ourselves a slave; someone who will do utmost anything for us. We can make him do anything we want…_anything. _That _includes_ explosions."

Moriarty smiled wickedly, "You're right, Seb. Absolutely right. Besides, our little marionette needs a little something to make himself known. We'll wait a couple of days, and then we can get back to ridding him of those pesky 'friends'. Can't have him murdering _everyone_ close to him just yet, can we?"

Sebastian resumed cleaning his gun, "No, we'll have John rid himself of his friends later. Right now, we _need_ a little excitement."

…

Sherlock paced the room, the image of a bloodied Molly stuck in his mind. He didn't believe in sentiment; it was useless.

But he couldn't stop thinking about what he had felt at the crime scene; pity and a twinge of sadness.

Molly had helped him with cases before, nothing more. He had never felt romantically attached to her; no, he was definitely asexual. He considered her a friend, but not a close one.

John was his only friend, but ever since the fall, he had been distant. He understood, though, he could see why one would be cross with him. He had lied for three years; leaving John on his own. In retrospect, he should've informed John of his plan regarding faking his own suicide, but he knew, deep down, that what he had done was to save John.

But now something else was off, and it wasn't the fall.

…

John lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His gaze was focused, but his mind was elsewhere.

He knew he was in trouble, he knew he was stuck. There was no real way out of anything; he had dug himself a hole and with each new lie, that hole was getting deeper and deeper, swallowing him whole. Sherlock was bound to be suspicious, Hell, Mycroft already was. Lestrade would catch on…eventually. John would run out of excuses or slip up one day, and that would be it. No more good doctor with high moral principles. No more living with Sherlock. He'd sit behind bars, rotting; living his days out how like before the war. Alone.

He knew he deserved to sit behind bars for the rest of his life; he'd killed someone for God's sakes! It didn't take a genius to know what he'd done was wrong…but why didn't he feel sorry? To tell the truth, he felt invigorated. Like someone had killed the old John Watson and now he was reborn into a better, stronger, _smarter_ John Watson. He had had this feeling before, back when Sherlock had died and John had begun to work for Moriarty. He had thought that his life was over after Sherlock jumped. He had thought that the adventure and the danger that came with working beside Sherlock was gone, so he settled for something that would bring the same sense of adventure and danger. Something to do to in his wake of anger at Sherlock for leaving him alone. He soon found himself forgetting about the law and killing for no reason, except for it being fun.

John sighed. He didn't like to think that way anymore. Looking back at who he was when Sherlock was 'dead' disgusted him. He had felt no remorse for his victims then, and he did not feel remorse now. It was strange, feeling no remorse and all. He had always been classified as the good doctor with a strong moral compass, but that had changed.

Everything had changed.

**_A/N: Like I said before, this was just a little filler. The next chapter will be, shall we say, explosive? ;)_**

**_Thanks again, TwoHeartedWallflower! You really helped me through my funk! This next chapter is going to be rather fun ;D_**

**_Please favorite/follow/review~_**


	7. Chapter 7- Boom

**_Chapter Title: Boom _**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Words: 3,267_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D_**

**_A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Follow me on Tumblr! Username: benaddictfreebabe_**

**_And thanks TwoHeartedWallflower! You rock!_**

"I apologize."

John looked up from his laptop and over at his curly-haired flat-mate in shock. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair. "I apologize. I see now that what I did was inappropriate and that an apology is needed," Sherlock spoke, his voice soft. He had never really apologized to anyone in his life –other than Molly, but that was different.

"What are you apologizing for?" John cocked his head to the side and waited. Truth be told, he didn't exactly _know_ what Sherlock was apologizing for.

"At the scene…when I pulled you away…I realize now that that was inappropriate and for that I am sorry," he clarified.

"Oh." John closed his laptop and placed it on the couch beside him. "To tell you the truth, Sherlock, it didn't really bother me."

"You _seemed_ bothered."

"I really wasn't. Sure, you surprised me, but I've gotten used to it. I've gotten used to all your quirks and outbursts," John smiled.

A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. "So you accept my apology?"

John rolled his eyes, "Of course, you git. Besides, that's not the worst thing you've done to me." John felt his heart break a little as he tried to be lighthearted about the statement. It still hurt to think about watching Sherlock falling to his death and the detective showing up three years later alive, but they had moved on, forgotten the pain.

Sherlock's smile faltered, but he covered it quickly, "Dinner?"

"Love to –wait, shouldn't you talk to Lestrade? I may not be bothered by your arrogance, but Lestrade is; I know that for a fact. I think an apology is in order for him," John replied.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Fine." He picked up his phone and began to text Lestrade.

"Don't text him."

Sherlock sighed again as he deleted the text. He began to scroll through his contacts, looking for Lestrade.

"No calling him either," John stopped him. "You'll talk to him _in person_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, but if he tries to lecture me, I'm going to say something," he warned.

John got up and grabbed his coat. "No you won't."

Sherlock led the way out of the flat and hailed a cab, headed for New Scotland Yard.

…

Lestrade looked up as he heard knocking on his office door. "Come in," he called loud enough for someone on the other side to hear.

Sherlock stalked in, clearly annoyed. "Lestrade, I would like to apologize for my behavior at the crime scene yesterday. It was inappropriate and I'll try not to do it again," he spoke, his voice robotic.

John cleared his throat and elbowed Sherlock's side.

"…I _won't_ do it again…unless," Sherlock started, but John elbowed him in the ribs, harder this time. "I won't do it again," Sherlock stated firmly.

Lestrade looked between the two of them. "Bloody Hell, how'd you get him to do that?" Lestrade asked John, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

John smirked as Sherlock grimaced.

"Well, goodbye." Sherlock turned on his heel and swept out of the office, practically running to the exit.

John nodded once to bid goodbye to a shocked Lestrade. He exited the office and followed Sherlock down to the ground level. He ran to catch up and fell into stride with Sherlock.

"That was humiliating," Sherlock muttered.

John chuckled, "Hey, you're the one who was rude at a crime scene! Lestrade deserved an apology, he got one, and now, to save yourself from another 'humiliating' apology, you're going to behave at the crime scenes. Lesson learned."

"You owe me dinner," Sherlock huffed.

John chuckled again, "Of course." He hailed a cab and gave the address for Angelo's.

…

Sherlock set the menu aside and looked out the window.

John eyed Sherlock's discarded menu, "You know, the concept of 'me owing you dinner' consists of you _actually_ eating."

"I'm on a case," he replied, his attention diverted.

"Then why did you offer dinner?"

"For you," Sherlock met John's gaze.

It was silent for a moment before John cleared his throat uncomfortably and stared down at his menu.

"Sherlock, nice to see you," Angelo walked over and patted the consultant on the back, "and you brought your boyfriend again."

"Still not his boyfriend," John sighed, still deciding what to order.

Angelo chuckled, "Sure, mate. We've all gone through denial."

John ignored him and set his menu down, "I'll just have tea, thank you."

Angelo smiled and nodded, "Anything for Sherlock and his-"

"-not his date," John snapped, his face going red.

Angelo shut his mouth at John's tone and went to fetch his tea.

Sherlock started, "Why do you always-"

John's mobile went off, stopping the detective mid-sentence. John looked down at his phone –Moriarty's phone, to be specific; he had begun to carry that phone around instead seeing as nobody called him on his personal device.

A familiar number lit up the screen. This time it was not by text.

"Oh, uh, I've got to take this…It's Harry; she was going to call me later today…" John stepped away from the table before Sherlock could stop him. He traveled to the far side of the restaurant and answered the phone. "Bloody Hell, Jim, I'm with Sherlock right now. What do you want?"

"Yes, yes, I know about your little date. I just couldn't wait to tell you!" Jim sang into John's ear.

"It's not a date; why does everyone just _assume_ it's a date? I'm not gay for God's sakes," John rambled annoyed.

"Hey, hey, you're ruining it," Moriarty shut him up, "Now, Johnny boy, I need you to tell _our friend_ Sherlock that you have to leave. I have a task for you that simply cannot wait."

"Not now, Jim…Sherlock is already suspicious as it is. You want me to just skip out on him? What am I even supposed to say?" John growled.

"Tell him that your sister had a little accident or that she needed help getting home from the bar. Be creative, heaven knows you're good at that," Jim smirked, "Do hurry, dear. You do know how _bored_ I get when waiting."

John tensed. Bored meant destruction in the dictionary of James Moriarty. "Fine…just send a car and I'll meet them outside."

"Already done! Oh, how you underestimate me, John Watson," Moriarty frowned, "I thought we knew each other better than that."

"I wish I didn't know you at all," John mumbled.

"See you soon, _C.J_.," Moriarty hung up, leaving John to ponder what C.J. meant.

John looked back at the table and found Sherlock staring out the window, completely oblivious to everything around him at the moment. That meant John had two choices. He could either go over and try to make up an excuse that would be deduced in a matter of seconds for being false, or he could sneak out, unnoticed.

He'd prefer the latter.

John rounded a corner and almost rammed into a waiter. "Sorry," he mumbled, shoving past them.

"Oi! Watch where you're goin'!" The waiter yelled a little too loudly.

John ignored his complaints and pushed his way through a set of double doors leading to the kitchen. He slipped through the maze of chefs and waiters in the kitchen, ignoring the protests from the staff. He exited to the back alley behind Angelo's and slipped around the corner leading to the sidewalk, careful not to step in front of the window Sherlock was looking through. He inched his way out of the alley, his back pressed up against the wall, for fear of being seen. He watched as a black car with tinted windows (the same one that had picked him up before) pulled up to the curb, Moriarty already rolling the window down.

John put his fingers to his lips and pointed to the window a few feet away.

Moriarty looked in the direction John was pointing and shrugged. "He's not looking. Come on," Moriarty motioned for John to get into the car.

John prayed for Sherlock to stay facing the other way and bolted for the car, pulling the door open and slamming it shut once he was safely inside.

"You didn't have to slam it, Jonathan. Those windows aren't exactly sound-proof; he probably heard the door slam," Jim sighed.

John peered through the window, feeling relief when he noticed Sherlock's attention was still away from the street. "Go, now. I don't want to risk having him see us."

Moriarty put the car in drive and huffed, "You really are too worrisome. Sherlock only thinks he's a genius, when in reality he's just an ordinary man," Jim spat, "If he really were a genius, you'd think he'd already have deduced what you've been doing in the years following his 'death'."

John rolled his eyes, "He's as much as a genius as you, Jim."

Moriarty shot John a smile in the rearview mirror.

"What was so important that you had to interrupt my dinner?" John sighed, leaning back into the seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

Moriarty smiled, but said nothing. He wanted to see John's genuine reaction regarding his plan. After another ten minutes of driving, he pulled off into a lot and killed the engine. "We're here."

John glanced out the window and felt his stomach drop.

The pool house. The same place they had first encountered James Moriarty.

It was in that moment that John knew exactly what Moriarty was going to have him do.

It all fit. A little over three years ago, John had a bomb vest strapped to him. Now there would be no bomb vest, just a bomb…planted by John.

"No," John growled.

Moriarty smirked, "_Yes_, unless you'd like me to visit your family…"

John clenched his fists. "It's too obvious. He'll know it was someone connected to this event. It can't be you, you're dead."

"And so was Sherlock, so what?" Moriarty turned around in his seat to face John. "It'll all connect to me, but like you said, I'm _dead_. It won't make sense; he'll be lost."

John looked away from Jim and at the pool house. "Nobody's inside?"

Jim smiled. He had John Watson wrapped around his finger, ready to do anything at his beck-and-call. "Seb checked, and no, nobody's inside."

"Then what's the point?" John frowned. "This doesn't seem like your forte. You're all for the kill, you wouldn't do anything for no reason…"

"I'm not only about the kill, Johnny; I'm also about the theatrics. I like to make an image for myself, and that's exactly what I'll be helping you do," Moriarty grinned, evil in his eyes.

"An image…?" John narrowed his eyes.

"Yes," Moriarty huffed impatiently, "I'll explain that later. Right now, you're priority is regarding the pool house." He leaned over and opened the door for John, making sure to lean over his lap to cause John to become uncomfortable. He motioned for John to get out, "Go on, Seb's waiting."

John exited the car and began to walk up to the building, each step feeling heavier than the one prior. The world around him seemed to slow, his senses honed in on his task. He had to forget about the consequences or it'd be impossible to focus; which could be the death of him when working with explosives.

Seb was waiting at the front, a backpack hanging from his shoulder. He smiled as John walked up, the ex-doctor's body rigid. "Ready for some excitement?"

John glared at him. His gaze traveled down to the backpack and then back up at Seb's face.

Seb handed the bag over cautiously. "Might not want to jumble this around much. We don't need any casualties, especially our little Johnny boy," he smirked.

John slung the bag over his shoulder, careful not to let it hit his body too hard and cause an explosion.

"Take it inside and place it by the pool exactly where Sherlock was standing those years ago. After you're there, open the bag and place the bomb, _carefully_, on the tile," Seb opened the door, "After you've planted it, run like Hell."

Seb motioned him through the door and John slipped in, taking cautious steps in order to keep the bag level and in place. He made his way through the lobby and locker-rooms, trying to forget the last time he was there. He pushed all memories aside and pushed the door open that lead to the pool itself.

An overwhelming scent of chlorine flooded his nostrils and caused him to cough. He tried to hold it in, but the smell was so strong, he couldn't stop; every time he breathed in, the more the aroma stung his throat and nostrils.

He jogged steadily over to where Sherlock had stood, and placed the bag down. He let loose all the coughs that had threatened his life when he was carrying the bomb and took in some deep breaths. If he were to work with a bomb using shaky hands from all the coughing he had done, he'd definitely blow himself up. He calmed himself and steadied his hands. _Doctors hands_, he thought, _doctors hands don't shake._

He knelt down and carefully unzipped the bag, holding his breath. He put his hands beneath the large metal device and began to lift it-

"Hey! What are you doing?" A voice echoed through the large room.

John turned his head and saw a night guard pointing a flashlight at him. _Shit_, he swore. He set the bomb down and put up his hands in a defensive gesture.

The night guard approached and shined the light on the bag, bending over to get a better look at it.

John took that opportunity to wrap his arm around the man's neck and pull back, cutting off his air supply. He used his other arm and searched for the gun in the man's holster. He removed the gun and shoved the man to the ground. He felt his senses sharpen and an adrenaline build within as he raised the gun to point at the man's head.

The man stared at John in shock, "Please, sir, I have a family."

John took the gun off safety and put his finger on the trigger, "Don't care." He pulled the trigger and the man ducked, the bullet grazing the side of his head. John felt anger bubble inside as he cursed himself for the bad shot. He poised to kill again and this time, he made sure the man would die. He pistol-whipped the man's head, causing him to go unconscious. John pulled the trigger and watched the bullet crack through his skull and embed itself in the tile beneath him. He tossed the gun away and went back to his task at hand.

John lifted the bomb carefully and examined it. His eyes widened as he read the note left by Moriarty.

_'Run, Johnny boy, run.'_

John shot up and sprinted from the building, pushing his legs to move faster.

Sebastian grabbed his arm as John exited and dragged him toward the car. "Jesus, John! What the Hell took you so long?" He shoved John into the car and dove in after him.

Moriarty jumped the pedal and sped from the ticking time bomb of a building.

John waited till Sebastian had righted himself in the seat before using his arm to hit his neck, crushing his windpipe enough stop air from entering. He positioned himself as Seb started fighting, and used his forearm to press his neck into the backseat of the car. "You said it was empty, that nobody was inside!" John screamed.

Sebastian tried kicking John off, but to no avail. "I…swear…I…checked…" he choked out.

John pressed harder, "Check harder next time, yeah?" John released and sat back in his spot.

Sebastian gasped for air as Moriarty grinned from the driver's seat.

John glanced back at the building and jumped as it erupted into flames. The ceiling caved in and parts of the foundation and walls flew into the air, littering the street with falling concrete. The building beside it was engulfed in flames within seconds, the roof already crumbling and collapsing.

"What the Hell was that?" John yelled at Jim. "Bombs don't start fires, they just destroy!"

Jim grinned, "Not my kind of bomb. Think, Johnny, just think. _Use your senses_…"

John pondered all the possible meanings of what Moriarty had said. Senses…there were five. Sight, touch, taste, hearing…scent…

"The chlorine…that's why it was so strong. You used ammonia or turpentine in addition to chlorine," John deduced.

"Very good, Johnny, very good," Moriarty praised, "but not quite correct. I didn't use ammonia or turpentine; I used ammonia _and_ turpentine…together."

John nodded slowly, "Chlorine mixed in with those two elements would create a flammable substance. Therefore, it did not only destroy, it also lit up into a full blaze." John looked back at the building in the distance, the flames just a tiny glow from far away.

"Exactly."

John sighed, slipping down into his seat with the weight of his regret at what he had just done. They had said nobody would get hurt, but he didn't account for what would happen to the building beside the pool house. Who knows how many people had gotten hurt in the explosion…or worse, _died_ in the flames.

John looked down at his hands, "What now?"

Moriarty pulled around and headed back toward the burning building. He stopped a little ways away from the scene –now packed with firemen working to diminish the flames, and their machines, working to water down the fire- and parked the car by the curb. "Now, we sit back and watch the show."

**_Once again, I am so sorry that this was so late. I have been having such bad writers block, so if this chapter is crap, I'm so sorry. I'd appreciate some feedback or suggestions for where this should head. Thanks, guys. You rock!_**

**_Please favorite/follow/review~_** _**and remember to follow me on Tumblr:) Username: benaddictfreebabe**_


	8. Chapter 8- Remorse?

**_Chapter Title: Remorse?_**

**_A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D_**

**_Words: 2,424_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D_**

**_A/N: Sorry for the long wait! Follow me on Tumblr! Username: benaddictfreebabe_**

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and glanced in the direction John had gone. He leaned to the side and tried to find John amongst the waiters and guests waiting to be seated, but Angelo blocked his line of vision.

"One cup of tea for –hey, where'd he go?" Angelo set the teacup down in front of the unoccupied seat and looked to Sherlock for an explanation.

Sherlock looked around Angelo, but didn't see John anywhere. "I –I don't know, actually. He got a call from his sister, but…" Sherlock stood from his seat and collected his coat that was folded over the back of the booth, "I think I may have just gotten what people call 'ditched'."

Angelo nodded, his lips curled into a slight frown. "Oh…I'm sorry, Sherlock," he sighed, not sure how to react.

Sherlock draped the coat over his shoulders and slid his arms through the sleeves, "It's quite alright. I'm sure he left on an emergency," Sherlock assured both Angelo and himself, though he had a slight nagging feeling that it was something much more than just a problem with John's sister. Sherlock nodded once, bidding Angelo a goodbye. "Goodnight, Angelo, I'm sure I'll be back soon."

Angelo picked up the full teacup, now lukewarm, and nodded. "Be seeing you," Angelo smiled. "Good luck tracking down your runaway date."

Sherlock smirked and let his comment slide. He had more pressing matters to deal with.

He strode out the door and brought out his phone, pausing on the sidewalk to find John's contact in his phone. He hit the call button and put the phone to his ear, raising his hand to signal a cab.

A cab stopped and Sherlock shuffled in, the phone still ringing in his ear. "221B Baker Street, please," he spoke to the cabbie, the call going to voicemail. Sherlock ended the call and tried again, praying that John would pick up the phone.

He didn't.

…

John sat back in his seat, watching the scene unfold before him.

Men and women worked to remove the wounded from the blaze, loading them onto gurneys and stretchers, wheeling them to awaiting ambulances. The ambulances would zoom away toward the hospital with the hope that they could save each person that was injured in the fire.

A lady stumbled on the sidewalk, nearly coughing her lungs out from the smoke. She looked back at the burning building and started bawling. Firemen held her back as she struggled to retreat back into the building to save her coworkers and friends. She collapsed all of a sudden, and the medical personnel came to her aid, placing her on a stretcher and checking her pulse. They wheeled her away and John watched as they put an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose to help her breathe.

John balled his hands into fists and held himself from lashing out at Moriarty or Sebastian for what they were forcing him to watch…but something held him back from completely losing it.

He felt no remorse for _anything_. Even as he watched the dead being zipped up into body bags, he didn't feel an ounce of regret for what he had done.

Truth be told, he didn't feel for the families of the victims. He didn't care that families would be torn apart by their losses. He didn't care that children would be without their mothers, fathers, siblings, cousins, extended family, etc.

He just didn't _care_.

Was it because the adrenaline was still present in his veins? Or…Was it something else?

Was he changing from 'good old doctor Watson' to something more dangerous?

Question was: Who _is_ the new John Watson?

…

Sherlock bounded up the steps to his shared flat, his steps less than quiet. He pushed open the door and looked around for his flat-mate who he was almost positive would be there.

Sherlock groaned as he found the flat empty with no doctor in sight. He pulled out his phone again and dialed John's number, putting the phone to his ear. He heard it ring once, twice, three-

A ringing phone, mixed with the sound of a mobile device vibrating against a wooden table, sounded from behind him.

He turned slowly, dropping the hand with his phone it to his side.

On the table in front of him was John's phone, Sherlock's name lighting up the screen.

If John's phone was at the flat the whole time, how had John's sister called him at the restaurant?

More importantly, where was John?

…

Moriarty kicked the car into drive and hit the gas, causing John to jolt forward.

John gripped the seat in front of him to prevent himself to smacking his face into it. He shot a glare at the back of Moriarty's head, not caring if Jim didn't see it, just taking pride in the fact that it was one way of getting his anger out.

"Ready to go home, Johnny?" Moriarty smiled, turning the car toward 221B Baker Street.

John remained quiet, not willing to admit that he'd rather go on another crime spree rather than face the whirlwind of deductions that is Sherlock Holmes. Also taking into consideration that John had practically _ditched_ him on their da –outing, he definitely did _not_ want to go home. He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping Sherlock would be in his mind palace by the time he arrived at their flat; John did not want to face Sherlock right now. Sure, he was confident that he'd be able to lie to Sherlock, but would his lying ability outweigh Sherlock's observation ability? In other words, would John be able to convince Sherlock that he was actually with his sister and not blowing up buildings?

Sebastian glanced sideways at John at smirked, "You don't seem too bothered by what you've just done, John, even considering the fact that you killed a man to accomplish your task…"

John ignored him. He stared out the window and pushed the door open as Jim pulled alongside the sidewalk outside his and Sherlock's flat.

"See you soon," Moriarty smiled.

John slammed the door and glanced up at the window to their flat.

_Did the curtain just move? No, no…I'm seeing things…_

John opened the door slowly and clicked it shut behind him. He crept up the steps and paused when he heard the consultant's voice calling him in.

"No need to creep up the steps, John, I already know you're there," Sherlock called.

"Do hurry up, Dr. Watson," a familiar accent beckoned.

John swore to himself, "Damn British Government." He hopped up the steps and entered the flat. He looked over at Sherlock who was sitting across from his brother in his sitting chair, the violin perched beneath his chin. "Uh-"

"I tried calling you, John." Sherlock didn't look at him.

John cleared his throat, "Oh –uh, I must have left it here by accident…" He entered the room further and rubbed the back of his neck.

"That's what I would have deduced, but," Sherlock rested his violin on the arm of the couch and looked up at John, "that wouldn't make sense in the fact that your sister called you at the restaurant."

John swallowed thickly, trying to get a hold on his nerves. "Yes, I know. I had my phone, came here, and I must have forgotten it when I went over to my sisters."

"Why did you come here if there was an emergency regarding your sister?" Sherlock inquired.

"Who said it was an emergency?" John snapped, defending his 'innocence'.

Sherlock was clearly caught off guard. "You –uh, I, um," Sherlock cleared his throat, "If it wasn't an emergency, I'm surprised that you couldn't take two seconds to tell me you were ditching me for Harry… She could've waited," Sherlock paused, "You could come here to do heaven-knows-what –which is twenty minutes out of your way to your sisters, but you couldn't just shoot me a text, or even call, to tell me you'd be leaving me?"

John felt his heart break slightly at the hurt tone in Sherlock's voice, but he distanced himself from his emotions (which he found himself getting better at lately) and kept his voice emotionless. "I don't have to tell you where I'm going every time I decide to leave, Sherlock. You aren't my mother."

Sherlock stood and took a step toward his army doctor. "John," he paused, not sure how to approach this, "I'm just concerned-"

"-concerned? Since when have you been concerned for anyone but yourself, Sherlock?" John snapped, knowing he was just hurting the detective even more.

"John, you're not acting like yourself…" Sherlock tried to meet his gaze, but when he did, he found himself looking into a stranger's eyes; not the familiar happy-go-lucky usual bluer-than-blue eyes of his flat-mate. "Ever since…the fall…you've been acting strange. I attested it to your shock in that I was alive and not dead, but as of late, I've been thinking it's something else…"

John laughed coldly, making Sherlock's eyes narrow, "That's your problem; you always overthink everything, Sherlock. You don't think about the consequences of your actions and how people will be affected. When you jumped, my world stopped moving. I had nothing. You were gone and I was alone…again. You think that after a few months of knowing you're alive I'd act normal? That everything would go back to the way it was before? Well, I'm sorry to inform you of this, but you're mistaken. I tell myself that I can trust you again, but I just…can't, Sherlock," John sighed, fighting tears, "So you wonder why I didn't tell you I was leaving? Well, truth is, I didn't tell you because why should I? You didn't tell me you were _ditching _me."

"That is a childish move of revenge-" Sherlock began, but abruptly stopped when John glared at him.

"Sherlock, brother, I think the topic of your faked suicide should be dropped," Mycroft spoke up, breaking the tension between the two flat-mates. "It would be in everybody's best interests to drop the topic and move onto another pressing matter."

"Speaking of which, why are _you_ here?" John growled, his anger now directed at Mycroft.

"As I have previously stated, I have a pressing matter that needs to be dealt with, and who better to help than the detective duo?" Mycroft forced a smile.

"Oh, yeah? What is this 'pressing matter', then?" John hung his coat up and straightened his jumper. He retired to the couch and poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle on the table in front of him. He brought it to his lips and blew, cooling it enough to drink it without burning himself.

"A bombing," Mycroft replied.

John nearly choked on his tea, but forced it down before he started coughing. He composed himself and put on his best naïve act. "A bombing? Where?"

"Not too long ago a report came in that the pool house had blown up, causing the buildings adjacent to burn to the ground. Thirty people dead; many more injured," Mycroft rotated his umbrella mindlessly on its tip as he talked.

"Where? What pool house?" Sherlock repeated John's question, annoyed that Mycroft hadn't answered him.

"You should know, Sherlock. You went there not too long ago," Mycroft paused to let it soak in.

Sherlock straightened up as it dawned on him, "Moriarty," Mycroft nodded, "The pool house…It's where we first met, and where John was put in danger." Sherlock glanced at John for a second before looking back at his brother.

"So you can see why this bombing is completely suspicious," Mycroft sighed.

Sherlock nodded, "All signs point to Moriarty. It's his façade; theatrical."

"But he's dead," John pointed out, "Or…?"

Mycroft looked between the two men, "We either have an impersonator or-"

"-or Moriarty pulled the same trick that I did," Sherlock finished. "But I watched him die…He shot himself; a bullet through his brain…"

John smiled internally. Moriarty was right. They'd taken the bait and would soon feel lost as the cases resembling Moriarty's usual profile would slowly become less and less 'Moriarty-like' and more and more like a new criminal mastermind had arisen. They were certainly in for a shock.

"John," Sherlock brought him back from his thoughts.

"Huh?" John blinked, looking between the two Holmes'.

Sherlock's eyes softened, "Everything alright?"

"Yes," John answered quickly.

Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt. "I understand if you want to stay home; revisiting the site of your near-death experience can be difficult…"

"No, I'm fine," John assured, standing up. He put on his coat and followed Sherlock out the door, Mycroft trailing behind.

"I expect hourly texts on your progress with this case, Sherlock, John," he looked at them both, "As soon as you have a suspect or perpetrator in custody, I must know about it immediately."

A car pulled up to the curb, stopping in front of Mycroft. "If this man is copying Moriarty or using him merely for muse, then we could have a real dangerous situation on our hands."

Sherlock and John nodded simultaneously.

John grinned as soon as his back was to Mycroft and Sherlock was facing away.

Dangerous?

They had no idea.


End file.
